Crimson Cloak
by Iscabibble
Summary: Little Red Riding Hood, with a darker twist. An ongoing story that begins with the earlier days of a grandmother that we thought we knew the story of. Read and Review, if the mood strikes you. Thanks to those who have already, you help inspire more! Enjoy
1. Creation

The cottage she lived in was very old.  
  
It was said that it had been built long ago when the trees around it were only saplings and she was young and happy, a new bride being carried over the threshold of home that had it's last nail driven through the last windowpane only a week prior. Her feet had danced over the cool stone floor and up the nine wooden steps that had not yet been splintered. His boots had followed her up and his laughter had echoed loudly in the un-cluttered space that held nothing to absorb the sound. The curtain-less windows in the bedroom left open as they made love on the simple beige sheets and pillows that had no slips over them yet, for who would be out here to peep in other than a breeze and the rays of the sun.  
  
There was no need for anyone else. The villagers soon forgot about them and they had never really bothered to remember. They had everything they could ever need and they had no need for others. She couldn't imagine being without him. He knew of every place on her skin, of everything that flickered in her mind. They had never quarreled, only had a few stern discussions that usually ended by him carrying her off to the bedroom as she playfully yelped and hammered gently on his back with her small fists. He couldn't remember much of live without her. She always knew the spots to rub when he'd been hunting far too long. When the weather was cold she knew just what soup to make and always gave him the plants the right amount of water. When the roof began to leak he would climb a ladder made from birch wood and hammer as she passed him nails and sang him songs. If their pantry grew low on supplies he would string his bow and set off for the forest and she would dust earth from the carrots and potatoes of her backyard garden. She could weave cloth and sew buttons and knit socks and do countless other things with those slim white fingers that never ceased to amaze him. He loved to spend evenings sitting by the glow of the hearth and listen to the needles click together in a rhythm that he thought could relax even the wildest animal. Every night he would kiss those fingertips as whispered the three words to her that meant so much more than they seemed. She would smile at him softly, her eyes answering him back and they would drift to sleep, their arms around each other and their heads on the same small pillow, for they had never had need of a larger one.  
  
They lived together to see the rise and fall of only a year's worth of suns. One early morning while he was hunting the antlers of his prey struck him down when he thought he was safe. His clothing stained with the brightest dye of them all, he pulled himself slowly back to their doorstep. He wanted to see his young wife's face once more before the darkness forever stole him, wanted her deep green eyes to be the last thing to pass before his eyes. He managed to reach the garden before he stumbled forward and pitched toward the dampened earth. The turnip leaves stirred at his last deep breaths as he struggled to maintain himself, to life for just a little longer. He prayed with all his might for the powers that be to allow him just a few minutes longer, just until she returned from wherever she was. She would only be at the market, she was just finishing the dishes, she could be repairing the tear in her favorite worn dress, just a few moments longer. Only a few more.  
  
She found him hours later. She had been down the old and over-grown path to the village to speak to the doctors there. They had confirmed her suspicious and she had returned home so quickly that she felt she was flying. The sun was warm on her shoulders and it's heat felt too strong as if it were jealous of the shine and sparkle of her eyes that it could never imitate. She was so happy that she stumbled through the doorway laughing and singing and calling out for her dear husband. Where was he, could he still be hunting, no it was too late for that. She opened the back door and danced into the garden, her feet feeling as light as they were when the stone floor had just touched them and she had been holding her fine dress up to allow her room to twirl so many months ago. But now it ended with a harsh jolt and nothing but the movement of the wind between the trees could be heard. The grass became crushed as she felt her knees give way and the now cold liquid seeped into the fabric of her light summer dress. She stayed like that for moments, hours.  
  
Not a sound escaped her. She couldn't even cry. Her eyes remained dry, but the pain inside them was deep and powerful. Fear. She was afraid. She was terrified. He was gone, her moon and sun, her earth and sky, her one and only. Her husband. Her love.  
  
Dead.  
  
Her left hand rested on her stomach.  
  
What could she do? 


	2. Growth

Four months passed. She had been forced to leave the tiny cottage, whose garden had grown over with weeds and whose trees had grown as high as the bedroom window. The bow had been hidden by grass and the arrows lost in her attempts to hunt for herself. Not only could she barely pull back the string, but she also couldn't sneak through the bush in her condition and scared anyway anything she could have had the smallest chance at bringing home. More than often she would end up sitting on the moss and crying until her eyes were swollen and she held no more tears at the memories that would assault her. Then she would drag herself home and crawl into her bed where the small pillow now seem to be large enough to drown in and sleep for days.  
  
The house was aching. That's what it felt like. Her hands would run along the dishes to feel the chips from when they were had been dropped when he would try to help her cook. Her gaze would fall to the sewing she had abandoned the stitches that would cause him to call her a witch, for they were pure magic to him. Her lips would taste the flavors of the spices he loved the most. Her body would call out for him, her lips struggling to feel his own against them. There was nothing she could do. The house was driving her mad. To add to it all, the rippling inside her would constantly remind her and she felt she wouldn't survive much longer if she remained alone. Something was needed to distract her. Many things were needed. So she packed a small bag with clothes and her personal objects and locked the door behind her for the last time.  
  
As she followed the now near impossible to follow trail, she wept bitterly. Truly, she could have no heart left after so much anguish.  
  
It was a group of washerwomen who had found her. They were standing between the trees that were tied with heavy twine, gossiping as best that they could with their thick wooden clothespins between their teeth. When one of them looked up from struggling with a large pair of still-damp trousers and spotted the figure walking toward them, she had called out. The others turned to focus their attention on the sight and rushed to the girl's aid. She was after all thin and malnourished, her hair a mess of tangles and her clothes tattered and un-cared for. Indeed her whole visage was un-cared for. She seemed exhausted and her red-rimmed eyes showed the pain she was in. If it was mental pain or physical pain or a fine dust of both, the washerwomen could not tell. Her bag dangled from her hand and they rushed to take it from her and help her to the nearest inn. After all, a girl in her condition should not lift even the slightest heavy object. It could be harmful to her health.  
  
That was how she came to live in the village among other people. The tiny room in the inn became her new home while she waited the life inside of her to complete its growth. The Innkeeper was a tall man with hair the color of the midnight sky and he would allow her to earn her keep by washing piles of silverware. The dented forks and slightly tarnished knives gleamed from the soapy water and when she would reach for even the smallest of saucers to continue washing he would whisk them out of sight, proclaiming them to be far too heavy for her under the circumstances. The first time this happened she had snapped at him and spun around, her pruned hands on her hips and her belly protruding from her otherwise slender form. He had smiled at her and gently placed his hand on the lump to feel the movement beneath it. He had questioned how far she was along. She had guessed that it was six months by now, but what business of it was his. A crease appeared between her eyes and he laughed at the sight of it. He told her he could not wait to see if the little one would be lucky enough to bear her image and walked out of the kitchen, still chuckling. She turned back to her silverware and continued to wash to help her ignore the burning in her cheeks and the slight tremble in her soul.  
  
Time passed and the seven and eight months came and went. Still she continued to spend her mornings and afternoons working the kitchens with the Innkeeper always coming in ever so often to check up on her progress and condition. Eventually he began to stay longer and watch her polish the handles of knives. He would tell her of all the customers that would stumble in through the doors of his Inn. There were the travelers and peddlers who would try to pay with objects that he had never seen before and could never turn down because of curiosity. The butcher who had been fighting with his wife and needed a place to stay for the night as she had locked the door on him after he had found himself out in the streets with a pot on his head. The drunks that paid more for booze than they did for their rooms and the occasional member of the higher families who had nowhere else to go and probably had their own sheets to put on the beds so they did not catch anything 'common'. She would sit on her high stool near the basin of water and scrub while he talked and occasionally she would answer him, supply a word he could not grasp or ask him a question for she thought (or prayed) she had misheard him. He never asked her about herself and didn't need to know what had happened to her before she had come to the village. She was glad of this for she did not want to share and would hate to turn down the request of such a kind man who had done so much for her.  
  
After a while she began to realize that tremble had grown into a flutter and the flutter to something even greater. She sat on her small bed one cold winter night and waited, listening for footsteps. He always came up to deliver her meals and that night was no exception. As she waited for him she pressed her fingers to her stomach. It wouldn't be long until the bulge was gone and she would have someone around her again. She smiled. She wondered if it would be healthy, she wondered if she would be able to keep it healthy. Would she continue to live in her own little room in the Inn or would she return to the cottage far in the woods that never really faded from her memory? She didn't know. She felt she could not leave here. There were things holding her back.  
  
A knock came on her door. She stood up as quickly as she could and strode across the room to open it. He walked inside holding a larger tray than usual. It held not only one set of her carefully cleaned spoons, but a second. He smiled sheepishly and explained he had not yet eaten either and would she mind if he joined her, just for this one evening? She smiled back and began to ladle the stew into the bowls before them watching the steam rise in the cool room. It was a very long time before the bowls were empty as he was always talking because he had more stories to tell and she suddenly found it hard to swallow. When they said goodnight the room was dark and they were both yawning a great deal as they made their way to the door. He stopped on his way and leaned forward, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. She felt his lips press against her forehead and she closed her eyes to listen to his murmured good night and the echo of his boots as he went back downstairs. Smoothing the sheets over herself and trying to calm her heart, she found it hard to fall asleep that night. It had been a long time since she had felt like this. She hoped her dear dead husband could forgive her but she knew he would not want her to be alone. Besides, she would always have a part of him with her she thought as she curled her fingers protectively around her stomach. 


	3. Birth

The birth occurred three weeks later.  
  
The midwife had sent him out of her room three times before she finally locked the door on him. Shaken, he sat in the empty front room and listened to her screams, trying to decide if it was worth having offspring if it caused all this fuss and pain and chaos. The inn was closed for a week or so after that while she recovered from the difficult time she had had and he helped her along as best he could. The villagers continued their lives but they whispered a little more strongly now that the child had entered the world. The kitchen staff of the inn were placing coins as to when the announcement would be made and the flower stalls were beginning to display more than a few of their showier baskets.  
  
Finally, the inn returned to business as usual. The weary dusty travelers were out-numbered by the villagers who came flooding in to the see what had taken place. The Innkeeper smiled at them all and poured free drinks to anyone who came in weather they wanted it or not. The new mother sat by the window, smiling at everyone who came to her. With her chestnut hair falling over her shoulders and the sparkle of fierce pride at the bundle she held close to her breast she looked more lovely than they could remember in all the months she been with them. The washerwomen stepped forward and asked if they might see the little baby. She had never forgotten the kind women who had brought her to the inn and she nodded in contented silence. She turned back the edges of the blankets and admiring murmurs and soft smothered gasps spilled into the room from their corner drawing more attention to the newborn.  
  
It was a girl.  
  
A few curls of spun gold tumbled into her half-opened eyes. The bluish color that ever baby starts out with was already fading to a light green that would surely darken up as she grew. Her skin was the color of fresh milk and she clutched at the blanket's edges with fingers as small as match sticks. She was so tiny, so fragile. It was hard to imagine her growing up to become a woman as fine as her mother, but it would have to happen someday.  
  
Oh, how it did. 


	4. Engagment

Before the birth of her daughter, she thought she could have had a wonderful new life there in the village. She was beginning to wonder if the growing feelings she had for the Innkeeper would ever cease their rumblings and she looked forward to his nightly visits with such delight. But now she wasn't sure any longer. This new being, this tiny creature that she now had to look after and love and cherish... It did not help that everything except for the nose (that could have only come from her) seemed to have once belonged to her dead husband. The color and curl of the hair, the sparkle in her eyes that were that ever-changing green. She hoped it would darken no more.  
  
As she stood over the cradle one evening, watching over her baby, the Innkeeper stepped in. He stood in the doorway for a moment or two and just watched her. His gaze traveled up from the crown of her dark hair down her slender white form encased in a light green nightgown. His eyes traced the embroidery at the hems that just brushed the tops of her beautifully shaped feet. He wanted so much to left them off the dusty floor and place a kiss on each toe before he moved up to her ankle. Ever since she had been brought to the Inn so many months ago she had haunted him, this queen who he desired and wanted to have beside him for the rest of his life. The tiny box had been sitting on a shelf for many weeks now but he felt it only proper to allow her time for the connection between mother and child to grow undisturbed. But now after so many days had come and gone.  
  
He stepped forward and she looked up. He smiled, first at her and then the child, and for a few moments no words were spoken. They really weren't needed. She stood beside him and they gazed at the tiny baby. He turned to her and searched for the ring in a pocket that suddenly seemed as deep as a well. He began to ask her what he'd wanted to for so long but she turned her eyes up to him and he stopped. She looked back to the child and seemed to be lost in thought. Did death want her to remain alone with this child for the rest of her many days? Would she be able to love another without feeling the press of guilt upon her consciousness and heart? She felt his hands on her shoulders like that cold winter night that seemed so long ago. He kissed her forehead and she knew her answer. She broke the kiss and raised herself on her tiptoes, her mouth now level with his. He pressed his lips to hers and she felt the cool band slip over her finger.  
  
Yes. she could feel this again.  
  
The baby girl in her crib below them gurgled. The Innkeeper laughed and scooped her into his arms. She nestled there and reached for her mother. She was so happy. The three of them, a new family. One that would surely stand the test of time.  
  
Time would soon have its say in that matter. 


End file.
